


Intimacy

by wanpakupaku



Series: Intimacy [1]
Category: Mads Mikkelsen - Fandom, Original Work, vampire - Fandom
Genre: 18th Century, Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Consensual Sex, F/M, Finger Sucking, Forehead Kisses, Mild Gore, Neck Kissing, Rough Kissing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanpakupaku/pseuds/wanpakupaku
Summary: You join your husband's journey overseas, and find yourself in the embrace of one lovely Danish man.
Relationships: Mads Mikkelsen/Original Female Character(s), Mads Mikkelsen/You
Series: Intimacy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180946
Comments: 17
Kudos: 85





	1. The Wife

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! 
> 
> I'm an aspiring writer and what better way is there to just take a step than simply publishing a deep fantasy of mine that I saw in a dream years ago when I was in the least passionate relationship possible.This way maybe I'll see what being exposed via my writing feels like. 
> 
> Some scenes are directly from my dream (The first dinner, the intimate encounter in the corridor and the last part in the library with all the shattering glass) and the rest is, well, added by my awake consciousness. I can't seem to produce any short text, I have to build up things to feel satisfied, so it takes a while for things to get juicy I guess.
> 
> The character: Alev (red lady) belongs to my dear wife
> 
> English is not the language I was birthed into, so any grammatical errors etc may happen throughout the fic, I apologise in advance.
> 
> I'm open to feedback, both for the tecnical side of the language usage and the fic itself.
> 
> Have fun reading <3

As the wife of an English gentleman and esteemed medicine practitioner, you live quite the luxurious life in the year 1768. Your husband is generous enough to take you to the first Circus to ever be held, in the streets of London and quite a spectacle it was indeed. You hear him talk about a war starting somewhere exotic, the land of the extremely expensive rugs you bought last year, Otto-something, and the freaky cold persons of the Balkans, or whatever. Your husband is a kind man, a gentleman, indeed, yet he is always out, leaving you behind to attend tedious tea parties, where the most exciting thing to happen is discussing whose hat is bigger or whose ring shine brighter or whatever, you couldn’t have cared less. And how many months it’s been since you two, just the two of you went out to see the galloping horses, trotting creatures in the circus. You want some action, some change, you need change, and you’ve chosen a new set of drapery for the guest room the third time this year.  
It’s not about the money, you tell yourself, money comes from your Papa, and you can have it all. Your sweetheart seems to want to keep working, and working, and working, non-stop somedays. Sometimes the dates he gives for his return may be faulty by two days, sometimes a whole week. You imagine the seminars he attends, the ideals the men discuss. You hear them of course, when it is time for the after dinner cigar, expensive ones, presents from Papa, to make your husband look even better among esteemed guests, strange men really, with their eyes holed up within their dark sockets, talking very quietly so you can’t even make out one word of what they are talking about, but prying still, while serving their evening drinks “to make sure the servants don’t mess anything up” you say to him and to yourself. But your soul hungers for more.

So when you hear that he’s to meet another gentleman who has made quite a name for himself in a far land, so far that you’d have to cross the sea, leave London even, your heart flutters. For this is the first time you know where he’ll be going before he does so, and instead of learning about the most bland and uninteresting details, hence left to fill the details yourself after, you can do so much more now. When was the last time you asked for anything? Has it been months or years? Does the circus count? Probably not, you’re almost sure that Papa advised him to take you there anyways, so yes, it definitely doesn’t count at all.

You heard the name of the land: Denmark. What kind of a land is it you ask to yourself, then you ask your serf, neither of you know. You look into the books in the study when your husband leaves the next day. You search for even the tiniest information on this land beyond the sea. You find a short passage about olden warriors, called Vikings, who conquered the women and lands after murdering the men. Intriguing, to say the very least, for your dear husband who hasn’t landed a hand on you for so long in any context, to be planning to go and stay there for three months at least. For a second you wonder, is feeling the dominating men’s touch over your frame, a desire that strikes your dear husband’s mind too? You silently giggle at the thought. But it indeed is an engaging fantasy to find yourself in. Big strong arms, one holding the axe, the other holding you from your waist, pulling you in one abrupt move-

Your husband arrives, disrupting your visions. You quickly put the book back into its shelf, the way you research anything in his study, one book at a time, and always put them back as exactly as they were. You run to greet him, as your servant takes his coat, he looks rather… different, you think. He is tired, sure, but he looks excited too. You wonder what it is that he is excited about, but know he won’t share. As the dinner is served you start your plea. You talk about how when you were a little babe, your father used to tell you the story of the strong Viking warriors, and their vast lands, a lie for sure. “Is that so?” he asks, but not a question in nature, he doesn’t want to hear what you say. But you don’t let this get to you, you keep on with your propaganda, taking up the claim that you haven’t asked anything from him for years, almost since you two got married five years back. He nods, he knows that you ask him of nothing at all if possible. He’s aware that you take care of your own and the house, and that’s how he wants it to be.

You don’t stop even when it’s time to go to bed, night gowns worn, and candles almost out, you keep telling him, this land called Denmark, you want to go too. You want to share this journey. He mocks the fact that you’ve never left London your whole life! Even more reason to do so, you tell him. He warns you that there’ll be a sea journey. You have no idea what a sea journey would bring with but you bravely declare that it doesn’t scare you. And for your last card up your sleeve, you put your hand over his delicate parts, hoping to awaken something within him and within you too. Something does awaken in him as you see a little smirk, paired with “Ah, so that’s what you really wanted.”

But it’s not what you remember, it’s been far too long since you two embraced each other like this or in any other way to be honest. You know that this is not how it should be, because you feel the pain, and his grunts fall on your ears like the dying whimpers of a beaten up dog and you hate yourself for taking the first step. You hate yourself. And you hate him, your dear husband. Your dearest, loveliest, most generous husband. Is he really? The thought disappears into the night as he finishes in your deep parts, and you don’t have the motivation to clean yourself that night at all. He is fast asleep, but it takes you a few ten minutes to finally be embraced by dreams. You dream of Vikings pillaging London, you on the back of the Viking King, tied up to be ravished after the war, unable to do anything about it.

Next morning you wake up to your husband sitting on his side of the bed, his legs down, his feet touching the ground, his eyes reading a letter, the sound of paper rustling filling the room.

“I will tell Papa.” You say, in a calm yet solid tone. “I will tell him that you’re lying about your esteemed friends. I will tell him that none holds a title and none holds a wife.”

The rustling stops. He lets out a long sigh. “I understand, my love. We shall visit Denmark together.”

The electrifying rush of victory fills your veins, your face is shaped by a smile now, a grin even. A victory, yes. Your husband at least knows when he shouldn’t ignore you. You congratulate yourself, silently, as you watch him get dressed. You get out of the bed to help him, first time in a long time again, smile while doing so, you wish him a good day when he leaves, another first for the year. The rest of the day is spent with choosing what to bring. Around noon, you go into his study to read the passage again, the rush of the morning fills you once more, after putting the book back, you make a list in your mind, of things you might need there.

It takes a week for you two to get ready and be on your way. Your sister takes over the estate and affairs for your little paradise escape, her words, not yours. Days spent on land, seeing London get lost at the behind of the cart fills you with anxiety and excitement at the same time; days spent on sea, your husband was not making a jest, it was horrible, you hate every second of it, the salty air, the never-ending cradling, the stomach-upsetting food, and don’t even get you started on the toilets! But you endure all of it silently, you make no remarks on how horrible anything is, because you know you won’t have a second chance if you do so. He might even send you back, imagine that! Even the thought is worse than this smelly sea creature and whatever-this-is porridge. More days on land follows when you finally reach the building among acres of forest.

The building itself reminds you of your late grandfather, perhaps because the front looks like a face, and not a pretty one. Your carriage arrives as the sun sets upon the horizon, the pink and orange hues dye the land. A man welcomes you at the door, as the servants begin unloading your belongings. He greets you and tells his name but it is impossible to pronounce for you, so you just decide to forget it. You leave talking to him to your husband, as expected of you anyways. The man, the caretaker of this palace, as he claims, tells you about the history of the building. Eremitageslottet, another name you don’t even hope to pronounce correctly, was a hunting lodge built for the King of Denmark, but it was hard to take care of this Lodge in all honesty, and Master Mikkelsen was Godsend as he was the patron for the renovations. The building was not intended for residence, it was a lodging only, but he seemed to care for the building a lot, and who was the caretaker to stop him from doing so. As long as he keeps paying for it, you complete his words in your mind.

He tells you many things about how the building was built and whose parties and hunts were hosted there but you find yourself lost within the words, unable to focus on anything this boring man is saying. Your husband, however, seems very interested in the events and stories of the place, or at least he seems eager to listen. To be kind, or does he have another motive? You can’t find a reason to care. He takes you to your rooms and lets you settle in for the night. Dinner will be served in an hour or so, and hopefully Master Mikkelsen will join you too. “He might not be able to join us?” asks your husband for you, without knowing that you thought of the same thing too.

“He went out for hunt, sir. He is expected to be back tonight.” The caretaker’s English is surprisingly well, you wonder if this Master Mikkelsen will be able to speak so fluently too? Or does this man have the role of interpreting between languages perhaps?

At dinner you find out that, yes, Master Mikkelsen, indeed speaks English very fluently. His gaze upon you, the way he stares makes you think of that short passage about Vikings, his tone deep, welcomes you to the dining hall that was intended for very crowded gatherings. “Please, have a seat.” He helps you with your seat as your husband sits down on his own. The two talk about your journey to here, he declares every complaint you had about it out loud, he is a man, in the end, and he is allowed to whine. They talk about the weather as the starters are served. The main dish is accompanied by the political climate and the war in the East. The desert blossoms topics about hunting hounds and strong horses. The two seem to enjoy the company of each other very much, you can’t believe that they’ve just met.

There is a gaze on both of their eyes, they have more to talk about, more important matters that you can’t be allowed to eavesdrop. You hear it in their tone, Master Mikkelsen’s deep, soothing, powerful voice. You steal short stares. His eyes are the color of gold. His clothes are made of dark materials, he doesn’t make a sound when he chews, and he prefers to drink his wine. You see his dish being taken away almost not touched at all. While you tried to hold yourself back, being on road for this long took its toll and you finished everything that was presented to you. Was it a rude move? Before you can take a peek on your husband’s dish, it’s taken away and you’re left with anxiety over table manners.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” You declare. “I must take my leave for the night. A lady needs her rest.”

Your husband lets out a soft and insincere laugh, just to be kind. And Mikkelsen, he… smiles. Taking the chance of your husband looking at you, knowing that he won’t know, takes a long stare up and down your figure and smiles. You find yourself not moving, even though you just declared otherwise.

“Dear?” asks your husband, “Are you alright? Want me to help you get upstairs?”

“That won’t be necessary, my love.” Did Master Mikkelsen’s face move when you said “my love”? Just a tiny bit, his lips. Or is it the trickery of the candle light that dances on his face? You take a small bow and leave the dinner hall, taking your body to the room, with your thoughts and mind left in the dining hall.


	2. Midnight

Your husband arrives very late to your chambers, so late that you miss his arrival having yourself buried in dreams about Vikings and Viking Kings once more. The next day is spent in the room, as you’re too frail and too tired to even leave the bed, that’s what you tell your husband. But the reality is, you just want him to leave you alone so you can read the poetry book you brought along. In silence, in peace and away from his gazes. He doesn’t know you can read, he doesn’t know you were tutored by the best of England, he also isn’t aware of the fact that you can read his letters he leaves around the house. But you don’t. Because you know that you don’t want to be aware of the words written on those pages, you have a feeling that you can’t act like you weren’t aware of what’s written like the books in his study. How foolish to believe that the books she receives as gifts are kept just for their pretty covers. Why didn’t Papa let him know of your ability to read while he was arranging the marriage you wonder sometimes. Perhaps he wanted to give you one upper hand, one secret thing, so you wouldn’t feel overpowered in a wedding you had no saying in. Perhaps he felt guilty. Perhaps-

You immediately hide the book under the covers as a young woman knocks the door and politely takes a look to let you know that food will be served. You missed the breakfast your husband attended, but will you be missing the lunch too? Is a doctor necessary for your condition is what the young woman is really asking. You let her know, no, that won’t be necessary, you will get ready for the food in a short while. She smiles and leaves. You think that perhaps she was just repeating a sentence form told to her, as she didn’t seem to understand your answer apart from your head nod, her eyes were kind but lacked the understanding of the sentences you just formed. Master Mikkelsen seems to have left for a doctor’s visit to a near village. What a generous soul, you think, to pay attention to the poor folk.  
At dinner you’re joined by more guests, this time, esteemed guests for real, decent clothing, decent manners, and decent folk over all, if only you could understand what they were talking about. They ask you questions, you politely smile and say you don’t understand them. One of them laughs and apologizes in the most broken English you’ve ever heard. But you smile again for his effort. So in the end, you get ignored by all, due to language differences. Which isn’t the case for your husband who enjoys the help of Master Mikkelsen by his side, able to enjoy the conversation as he pleases, throwing loud laughter with the folk as they drink and dine. You can feel that the information shared there isn’t like anything you could eavesdrop in London. Your husband is intrigued, he is invested in whatever the conversations about, he almost seems passionate. If only Master Mikkelsen was not whispering directly into his ear canals and you weren’t seated at the other end of the table. 

There aren’t any women among them, apart from you and another lady that sits right in front of your dearest husband. She seems like she can understand him, though she prefers to answer in her mother tongue, to keep you out of the conversation perhaps. You try to get jealous of your husband’s flushing cheeks, you do your best, but it just doesn’t happen. You take your leave for the night, hoping to read some more, in hopes of forgetting about all the knowledge you’re missing at that moment. The cheery bunch wish you good night in unison in English, after hearing your husband say it. They really are a charming bunch.

You get your book but the room suffocates you, as your desire to be with those people overcome the wish to stay away. You walk in the big estate, taking your time to examine the details on the walls and hear the laughter from afar. You see Master Mikkelsen walking towards you, you freeze up, trying to find an excuse for you being there but your brain is empty. He walks straight and passes next to you with a small nod only. You let your breath go as he turns and disappears at the corner. Your pace increases to find a place to sit and read, under the moon light perhaps. You remember the big saloon from your tour of the building yesterday. But you can’t help thinking about the way he whispered into your husband’s ear, while not breaking even a single second of eye contact with you. You were not afraid of your husband noticing as he was lost already within the smiles of the red haired Madam sitting across him. Master Mikkelsen looked at you, with a barely visible smile, they laughed, he didn’t. They shouted in excitement, he didn’t.

_He smelled really nice as he passed right next to you._

You sit in front of a wide window that takes all the moon light in, to not need candle light at this late hour. You slept all day, and with the thought of all the people in the dining room, you don’t feel the need to sleep at all. You struggle to focus on the words of Charlotte Lennox. She is an admirable Lady, your favorite in all honesty but today her words lack the impact to soothe you. Then you find yourself lost within daydreams as you stare at the pages and you don’t even realize him standing right there, with only a metre among the two of you, until he speaks.  
“Is there enough light for you, my Lady?”

You flinch and close the book abruptly. Master Mikkelsen stands before you, his face relaxed, his gaze on you, his body solid and rising like the warriors you find yourself dreaming about rather too frequently. If Vikings had formal attire of course.

You clean your throat. “I am fine, thank you. I do not require assistance.”

He nods but doesn’t move. He doesn’t seem like he has a desire to leave. You shouldn’t have been sneaking around when you should have been in bed at this late of an hour. You should be ashamed of getting caught. But you don’t feel the shame you think you should be feeling. Your cheeks do get warmer but not because you got caught. It’s because of him. The way he stands, he oozes authority and power.

“May I see what you’re reading?” He asks, his arm extended towards you, his hand expecting to hold the book. You give it to him, doing your best to avoid any skin contact, it would be absurd to touch this man in a setting like this. He examines the front and goes through a few pages. “Miss Lennox, never heard of her. But she seems to have some significance for you if you’ve brought her book all the way to here.”

“Yes, I enjoy the way she, ahem,” You lack the words to describe her. You never had a conversation about something you read with anyone besides your Papa up until now. “I enjoy her way with words.” You say in the end. “And the fact that she has a voice of her own.”

His eyebrows move up ever so slightly. “And you don’t have a voice? How are we having this conversation, then?” He jests. You smile, but the movement of your lips are weighted down with embarrassment. “And you can read also, which I estimate means you can write as well. Why not write your own words and be heard?”  
That is the dream. That is your dream. To write, to be known, to be among the ladies you look up to. The ones that aren’t afraid of creating art, the ones that aren’t ashamed of being a woman. “My husband doesn’t have the knowledge that I can read.”

“Ah,” he says, in a most understanding tone.

“And I intend to keep it that way.” You add, with a dash of threat here or there. You don’t have anything to threat him with, you’re just trying to show how serious you are about this.

“I understand.” He says with seriousness. “I have some English books, here and there in my library. Left from the times I was first learning your language. Really old books, but they are considered classics.” He takes a short step towards you but does so while looking out the door, as if he’s not aware of his own movement. “I would have invited you to read them but if I had to guess, you’d not want to visit the library right above us,” He points up and you look up. “The library, which is kept locked up mostly. As you wouldn’t have the key that I forgot right here.” He leaves a key right next to you, on the inner side of the window. “Whenever you found most appropriate.”

You put your hand on the key after a few silent moments. “Why would I visit a library?” You say. “I don’t even know how to read.”

His smile deepens under the moon light. “Of course.” He gives you a short bow and leaves the room.


	3. Library

The next day you don’t dare go to the library, you only pass in front of it and walk through the corridor it’s a part of. See the colorful stained glass door, from which you can see the big table and some of the bookshelves. You don’t put the key in the lock though, you just steal a glimpse and move on. At dinner you learn that the esteemed guests are there to stay. Wish you were informed of the fact that you two wouldn’t be the only ones attending whatever this gathering is. Another night of drinking and laugher. Another night of long gazes and silent whispers to the ear. This time you leave even earlier than the night before. All wish you good night as you pass the door. This time you tuck yourself in your room, you don’t want to accidentally run into Master Mikkelsen again. Because this time, you might not be able to hold back from touching him, maybe you’ll even embarrass yourself in front of him. You don’t want that. You don’t want the loud laughter of the red haired woman leaking through the walls. You don’t want any of that, so you go to sleep early. This time in your dreams, you get murdered with the rest of the villagers, and the red lady is sitting at the back of the Viking King’s horse, as his equal. You don’t remember the dream in the morning, yet you awaken feeling annoyed somehow. You find your husband in deep slumber. He must’ve drank quite a lot yesterday night. It’s not like him to lose control like that. You get dressed and decide that you’ll open the door to the library, right after you leave your room.

You don’t know the reason but you hide from the servants as you pass the corridors. Probably because you don’t want some servant telling your husband that you passed the corridors you just passed. Perhaps you don’t want to be found. Perhaps you hope to be found only by Master Mikkelsen, just a little.

You get in the rug covered room and see that there are single seats by the window that are not visible from the entrance. The morning is spent going through the titles and searching for books that are written in English. No one comes to get you when the big clock in the library hits noon. But you don’t feel like getting some food. Devouring the knowledge is what you’re hungering for. Around afternoon, when the sun starts setting, dying the room in warm colors, you hear the door open. Knowing that it can’t be your husband and wishing with all your heart that it is Master Mikkelsen, you await the person to turn the corner and enter your vision. First, you see the dark skirt of the dark dress, then you look up to see the red woman. Something fills you, a feeling. Is it disappointment? Is it jealousy? You remember your dream the moment you see her face.

She smiles, her face reminds you of a venomous serpent. Her eyes piercing through you.

“Good afternoon,” Her tone is velvet, her accent is exotic, and she intimidates you by just standing there. You feel your blood rushing through your body to flush your cheeks with red.

“Good afternoon.” You answer back. You try to fix your posture, to stand taller without leaving your seat. You feel her measuring gaze. “Excuse me but I do not know your name, Misses...?”

“But I know yours.” There’s something… that tingles you from the inside of your chest in her tone. She looks frail, and lady-like but the way she talks makes you think that she’s dangerous, and the fact that she laughs and smokes with the men shows you that she’s not ashamed of being born a woman. You envy her even.

“Do you love your husband, my dear swan?” she asks out of the blue, without telling you her name or explaining any further what she means by that nonsense. Your mind is divided into two on what you’ll ask first.

Swan? Or-

“Swan?” You say without letting yourself the time to think.

She smiles. “That’s what he calls you. The swan in captivity. But swan for short. You can imagine why.” She nods towards you.

Your hand reaches your neck involuntarily. Your fingers touch your skin. You don’t know what to ask next. Is it because of your neck? Is it too long? Do they make fun of you behind your back? There is no way your husband would call you a swan. Or would he? Is that who she’s talking about?

“So?” She pesters, disrupting your thoughts and confusion. “Do you love your husband?”

“I,- Of course I love him. What kind of question is this?”

She doesn’t look like she buys it. She looks at you so deep that even you yourself doubt the words that just left your tongue. Was this a complot of some sort? Did Master Mikkelsen give you the key so she’d know where to look for you and threaten you to get your husband?

“I have no intention of or desire to have any sort of intimacy with your husband.” She says. “You don’t get jealous of him, though. What’s the reason for that?”

“What-” You can’t even think properly, yet alone speak coherently. You stammer for a few seconds while she waits rather patiently for your response. “I don’t… You… He wouldn’t… I-” You just shut up and look at her. Who exactly is this woman? Is she perhaps the wife of Mikkelsen? Oh Lord, what if she is! What if she saw how he stared at you and you looked right back with no shame! Is this her way of telling you to stay back? But you weren’t doing anything! Is she the jealous one?

“Listen, young swan.” She talks calmly, you feel as though you’re getting instructions from a grown-up as a little child. “I need you to act more possessive than that, I’m aware that you lack jealousy towards him. You can ask how his conversation with me went. Or rather you can ask whether he’d like if you had red hair too. Maybe add some aggressive tones, ask for intercourse and deny him of it at last second, saying ‘ah maybe that harlot can help you with that’, you can get as creative with it as you wish.”

You sit there, utter disbelief immobilizing you as you try to comprehend what she just said to you. Her smile widens. “Do you imagine doing as I instructed, this night perhaps? You’d be assisting all three of us.”

Which three? You have no idea what she’s saying or what she’s implying. You are so lost, her next words almost don’t reach you. An aberrant woman! A pervert, a voyeur!

“He has his eyes on you, I’m sure you’re well aware, as you seem to not be able to avert your gaze either.” She says. You feel the thrill passing through your body. “I rest my trust in you, swan.” She leaves the library. Leaving you with no appetite for any books. You cannot wait for the night to arrive, for the sun to set, for it to be the time for dinner. Your body demands food that you’ve deprived it of. You hide in your room to not run into that horrible and scary woman. What was she even talking about? The more you think about her remarks, the deeper you find yourself lost within them. You don’t tell any of this to your husband, you watch him take notes in your shared room. Both of you awaiting the time for the feast for different reasons. When it’s time to get ready for your summoning downstairs, you find yourself talking aloud, almost whispering: “I see you’re glowing with the hopes of meeting the other guests tonight, again?”

He doesn’t seem effected by your remark, a thought to be more honest, you don’t know how it escaped your lips. You definitely didn’t decide on saying such a thing out loud. “Have you have confirmation about their attendance for tonight too?” He asks, and adds: “And why wouldn’t I want to taste their friendliness again, they are very intelligent and efficient people. I’m sure you’d like them if you’ve made an effort.” He just casually declares this while you fix his jacket for him. You stop mid-movement. You look at him. Did he really just tell you that you lack the effort to socialize with these people as if you’re not purposefully being left out by all? Another set of words escape your lips before you can keep them to yourself. “Don’t forget about that bright red that seems to have captivated you.”  
That’s when he lowers his gaze to match yours. You’re filled with a fury towards him that you can’t explain. You don’t remember of a time you felt like this towards him. He smiles, but you can feel how forced his movement is. His reaction annoys you even more but you gulp down any other scandalous sentences that you might utter, your body demands food, and you have no intention of ruining the chance to be seated among others to receive it.

You eat like a pig that night, that’s what your late mother would describe your table manners that night if she was there to observe, God bless her soul. You don’t care. The folk have their alcohol and foul chats and poisoning cigars, you’re allowed to eat like a pig. You feel even less of a woman now, having the red lady witness how disgusting you are, but you are done with whatever game she intends to play, you are not going to participate. You can even act less-lady like to spare the two of them of any guilt over whatever they wish to perform. You don’t want to imagine your husband with her, the thought can’t even find a form in your mind. She did say she had no intentions of sharing any intimacy with your husband.

_Besides, he is so beneath her._

You don’t return Master Mikkelsen’s stares this night. You feel something hostile about them this time. Maybe it’s actually your hostility. But you feel something courageous rising within you. Perhaps it’s the result of being exposed to that serpent of a woman. You have no idea, but when you return his gaze only when you’re about to take your leave, with the tiniest nod towards the library, you’re surprised and shocked even yourself. You can’t imagine what he, or she must’ve thought of your bold request to meet. And frankly, today is a very brave day for you.


	4. Library II

You do your best not to run to the library, you await, but also trying to not let your hopes devour your heart too much. You unlock the door and enter the room. You even light a candle deep within the bookcases. Just as you put out the short wooden stick and be left with the soft light of the candle, you hear his voice behind you: “What is it that you inquire?”

His frankness triggers something within you. Isn’t this a brave night? Be brave, you tell to yourself. Be as informal and as direct as he dares to be. 

“Is it some kind of a sick game you play with your wife? To lure me in such a place, just to be cornered by the likes of her?”

“My wife?” He asks, with confusion for the first time since you met, dripping from his expression. Then his face loses the little tension it had. “You mean Alev? She would never take me as a husband.”

Alev. A name as exotic as that accent of hers. You stutter. “What was that charade, then?” You manage to say. “Do I seem like a child to fall a victim to whatever she intends on playing?”

“What was her request?” He asks, genuinely curious. Or perhaps this is a part of the game too. You can’t read his expression. “What makes you red with fury, dear swan?”  
Your body freezes up. She is not his wife. Yet she was talking about him. So the two of them talked about you? When? About what exact aspect of you? If she’s not aiming to get your husband, then what is…

“I am married to my husband.” You say, like a chant, a whispered plea, a prayer in the dark. “I’m devoted to my husband!” you say, now louder, trying to convince yourself more like. He looks at you with patience. He takes a step towards you, you take a step back. “I’m-”

“You are the one that requests a meeting in the dead of night, at a place he knows nothing about, while you know he’s busy.” He whispers. His tone is so soft, you feel your knees get softer too. You take another step back. He follows, a dance between the two of you, only paved backwards, like an animal getting cornered on your side. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Sir.” You try to say, your tone can’t surpass the melody of his whisper. 

“ _What am I_ implying, Madame?” He asks back, this time he’s not smiling. The candle light gets swollen up behind his figure, into the night. His shadow falls over you. You take another step back, you feel the book shelves and the spines of the books with the tip of your fingers. There’s nowhere else left for you to move. You try to speak but words don’t seem to be in any position to save you from the situation that you find yourself in. You feel fragile and puny.

“You’re starved of intimacy.” He whispers. His hand resting on the shelf above you. You press your body against the bookcase, the wood pierces your back. His body towers over you. 

You find yourself answering his observation: “I’m starved of many things.” Your tone is weak but what he said makes you feel something inside, you hate that he’s right. You’re starved of soft touches, loving kisses, of pleasure and of love, but will you confess all of this out loud, right now?

“Please,” He whispers, getting closer a few centimeters. “Tell me more.”

“Of honesty!” You declare, with a fit of sudden anger. “And truth!”

He doesn’t seem to expect this reply. He abruptly moves back the last few centimeters he had advanced a moment ago. “What is the truth that’s been kept from you?”

His awe gives you courage. “How can I voice things I have no knowledge about? Like the things you gentlemen and the lady talk about. Laughing in my face while all of you exchange the knowledge of great men I imagine.” Something about him pulls a side of you out. A side you never became acquainted with before, not even yourself. You feel like you can burn something at that moment. Or spill secrets or scream your truth. Is it his gaze that gives you this strength? “I’m starved of the exchanges between great persons. I’m kept apart from the truth itself.”

“Is that so?”

“Is that so he asks!” You shout almost. “All the while whispering exclusively inside my husband’s ears the interpretations of the conversations while I perch on the other side of the table like the piece of accessory I am-“ When your eyes meet again, you fall silent. His eyes glisten of gold, like they did when you first met. He seems intrigued and entertained by the fit you just threw. He waits you to catch your breath to extend his hand. You two already stand very close, too close for the two of you to stand, in fact. Yet he still asks for your hand. You find yourself giving it to him. Your fingertips touch his skin. Cold and smooth, like marble. His hand moves as if he’s going to grasp yours but moves further, reaching your elbow through soft touches. Then finds its way to your shoulder, barely touching and leaving a burning sensation behind. When he reaches the back of your shoulder you shiver, but he doesn’t stop. His movement ends on your waist when he finally grabs you lightly. You feel blood rushing, your heart beating so fast, you can feel it in your throat, ready to explode out of your mouth. To keep it inside, both of your hands cover your lips as you let out a shivering whimper. The audacity! The immodesty! 

_He smells so good._

The form of his arm fits nicely on your back as he pulls you closer. His other hand leaves the shelf to hold the back of your head. His fingers move through your hair, ever lightly, as if caressing a delicate glass statue. You find yourself caged within a hug. His smell contains you in a second cage, this one made of desire. You can’t stop trembling lightly as your body is gently held by him. You are the swan in the cage. And you are not sure whether you want to leave even if you were presented with the key. He lets you go after a long moment. But you can’t move. “Mister Mikkelsen…” you whisper.

“Please, you don’t have to address me with such formality.” He smiles, the physical distance between you two is back to just below the social standards. “I would prefer if you’d call me Mads.”

“I would prefer if you wouldn’t decide to act in such immoral behavior, Mister Mikkelsen.” You stare right back into his eyes. You have to regain some of your dignity after the moment you two shared when you were about to risk everything for it to last forever. You add to persuade at least yourself. “To behave in such a way without the consent of the other person, it is almost an insult.”

“I apologize for my behavior,” He doesn’t seem sorrowful at all. “I shall try to contain myself from providing you the intimacy you desire without your request, my lady.” He takes another step back, indicating that he won’t push you towards anything for the night. “And for your desire to learn the truth. Well, we can start with a fact about your dear husband:” He takes a long pause. So it is true that the red lady was after him and she lied to you. Thoughts race in your mind. You can’t even talk back to her, what do you expect? You can’t do anything against a woman like that. Of course she can get him, use him as a toy perhaps. Maybe even make him waste your fortune on her! What would Papa say to the expensive gifts bought with his money? Would you protect your husband through such an affair? Would you lie about the fact about who is the receiver of such gifts?

“He is an incredible huntsman, at least within the borders of London, that is.” He continues.

The sentence is not clear to you right away. “My husband is an esteemed doctor, Mister Mikkelsen.” You correct him, after a short pause. “As I’ve heard that you are. A man of the people, both of you.”

“ _A man of the people_?” He seems amused by what you just said. “No,” His smile turns into seriousness and he turns his back to you. “We’re both far from that.”

He looks like he’s thinking. He’s not bombarding you with remarks. You take in the silence and the distance between you two. He hasn’t moved another inch. But you feel like he is getting further away from you, somehow, in his thoughts maybe. You don’t want his thoughts to stray away from you. You want to say something, anything, to make him look back at you. To make him think about you once more. Before you can say anything he decides on what to say.

“Another fact for you then,” He looks at you. Your lips are sealed under his gaze. “Your dear husband will be leaving Eremitageslottet for a short visit to the town. It’s a short way on carriage but a long one on foot.” Your husband didn’t say anything about a visit. “Even he doesn’t know that he will.” Mikkelsen adds. “He will use the excuse of attending a conference. But he wishes to send a letter. He will leave the day after tomorrow.”

He sees the forming confusion on your face. Nothing this man does or says make sense to you. Or rather they actually do, deep inside you know they do. But you’re not even a tiny bit sure whether you want to actually understand what he’s talking about. “How do you..?” But you can’t seem to finish the sentence out loud. You realize that you don’t want to know. Something in you tells you that this is a plot, and the mastermind is the red lady, you’re not ready to hear the true answer to that. You just aren’t.

“My husband can illuminate me on issues regarding him. I do not wish the truths about him.” You find yourself saying instead. “I wish the truths about the knowledge that is shared on the dinner table. I wish that truth.” You declare.

“I will tell you everything, and I promise to answer all your questions,” He gives you his last smile for the day. “After he leaves.”

And then he leaves the room.


	5. Just the Two of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3c

With all the thoughts raising mist up in your mind, you don’t even realize you arrive at your room, your husband waiting for you in the bed. You flinch with the sight of him. You didn’t expect him so soon. Or has that much time passed already? He doesn’t ask where you were with his words, but you hear the question in his stare. Good thing you didn’t have your book with you. Because your mind would jump directly to “I was reading.” which would create more problems than it would solve. “I lost track of time while looking out the window.” You say. “The garden and the forest is truly incredible under the moon light.” You hope the moon was visible tonight. You don’t remember if it was at all. 

“I see.” He says calmly. “And here I was, hoping to surprise you with an early night in. Thinking perhaps we could spend some personal time together, my love.” He doesn’t let out any sign on whether he believes you or not. You don’t want to spend any special time with him under any circumstances, if possible. You don’t want to even touch him while your heart burns with desire for someone else. You force yourself to smile. Would it raise suspicion if you were to deny his request? You try to think of an excuse while you walk to the bedside silently and begin to undress. He scoots to your side, and starts helping you untie the mess of lacings. Maybe you should just let him do it, maybe you can forget about today’s secret meeting this way, perhaps the burning of your inner thighs will pass with such an activity. But then again, he would wonder, why your inner parts are flowing on their own, when they don’t spare even a droplet when you try to be with your own dear husband? That’s a risk you won’t take.

You thank him for his help, and dress yourself in your nightgown. You feel his eyes on your back, which’s turned to him. You let your hair down and enter the bed. Averting your eyes, you await his request again. As a wife, isn’t it your duty? Maybe having some ‘fun’ beforehand may help you act like he is the reason of the waterfall down. 

“We don’t have to if you do not desire to.”

You look up to him, surprised. He had never said something like this before. You try to object and persuade him that you do want to. But you don’t. He just smiles, with an understanding expression. How can a man change this much in such a short time? Maybe you should ask the same about yourself too. Thinking that something was wrong with you because you disliked any immoral activities with your husband. But now feeling embarrassed because your body desires someone. And that someone definitely doesn’t sit right next to you now.

He caresses your cheek, then turns his back to take out the candle. You find yourself sitting still in the bed, in the dark, after your husband wishes you good night and proceeds to sleep. He knows. And weirdly, he seems to accept it. Your feelings are all over the place. You lie down after a while. But sleep doesn’t embrace you for a long time.

Next morning you two sit at the breakfast table together, just the two of you. He seems rather distracted and aloof. You are even more silent than usual. He sips his tea while he reads some notes on his notebook and adding new notes. Then he raises his head and smiles at you. He tries to be genuine you think, but there’s something behind his expression. Is he worried about something? His mind definitely is not at you or the breakfast. He asks the help of the head caretaker, who attends your main needs as he seems to be the only person in staff who can speak English. He asks: where are the rest of the guests and whether they’ll join you or not.

It is true. It’s just the two of you. And even the grand table is set for the two of you it seems. You sip your drink while trying not to stare too directly at the man while he answers. The guests won’t seem to be attending as many of them are experiencing the aftermath of the late night drinking of last night. He even jokes about how he’s impressed that your husband is up this early. Your husband reminds him that he didn’t stay for the late night drinking. He also smiles understandingly, yes they must have quite the night if none is within sight when it’s almost noon already.  
No one joins you two for lunch a few hours later either. This time, your husband asks you, whether you’ve seen any of the guests apart from the dinners. You almost choke on the fowl meat you’ve just bitten. He doesn’t seem to notice thought, as he keeps writing things in his notebook just like during breakfast. Is he implying at your secret meetings with Master Mikkelsen? Just as you’re ready to confess everything he makes the mistake of adding to his remark: “These people must love resting up very much. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone around when the sun’s up, apart from the servants. Not even Mister Mads.” Ah so the two of them are referring to each other by first name now. You can’t decide whether to get jealous, (jealous of whom, which one exactly?) or get angry at yourself for snapping at Mikkelsen for telling you to refer to him the same way your husband does, apparently. “Have you?” He asks, while seeming uninterested in the topic itself to be honest.

 **Have you?** _Yes._ **Ah, really? Who?** _Lady Alev._ **Oh, where and when did you run into her?** _The day after our first dinner in the library._ **Which library? Why were you in a library? What did you talk about?**

You shake your head and let out a soft “No.”

“Huh,” He replies. “Odd. It’s like only we’re living in this whole building.”

“It would be a nightmare to maintain such a place.” You add, relieved that he didn’t pester you at all. “Even our estate takes my whole days to deal with.”

He lifts his head up to smile at you for a second. “And I’m grateful to you for it.”

You’re not sure whether you heard him right. As you’re sure he never said such a thing to you directly. It’s always “the house looks like it’s in good shape” or “ah, nice choice for the drapery” or even “yes, things seem fine here”, but never any real word of appreciation directed at you.

You find yourself blushing a bit, even. You also find yourself saying: “I do it for us.” While the guilt of your daydreams about Mikkelsen consumes you. Well, what about that. Maybe your marriage is salvageable after all. Maybe if he keeps this up, and adds a dash of consideration during the intimate times, maybe a few soft kisses, even hugs while saying goodbye as he leaves for the day, you feel like you can continue your life with him. You can see the two of you returning home, this time conversing like equals, and maybe him even telling you about the secrets between his friends. Yes, you don’t need Mister Mikkelsen at all! You don’t need his knowledge or anything coming from him! You are a decent woman with a conscience. 

Except that you forget all of this when you run into Mikkelsen in the corridor after dinner. He was in the dining hall when you had left. Drinking with the rest of his fellows. You just climbed the stairs and took the long way to your room through the east corridor. But he’s there, right in front of you, at the other end of the road. You foolishly believe that he’ll nod and pass, leaving you to your own, as the faithful wife that you are. A mistake, truly. 

He walks right at you, with such an aura that your steps slow down and you find yourself standing in the middle of the corridor, awaiting his arrival. He never breaks the eye contact for even one second while he approaches. You have to use all of your will to move aside, seeing that he won’t. Your body doesn’t seem to listen to your intent though. He whispers, with mere steps between you. “May I?” Asking for permission this time. What a gentleman.

“Yes, you-”

He doesn’t even wait for you to finish before your lips touch as his arms hold you gently but tightly. You feel your arms wrapping around his neck and shoulders clumsily. He continues walking as your faces meet, he supports your back as it rests on the wall. The kiss is intense, you hungered for this for so long, from Mikkelsen, yes, but for your whole life too, to feel the desire to be lusted after. The energy of not being able to contain yourself so much that you don’t even care who might see, what might happen next. Will you rip apart his shirt and jacket? Will you loosen his neckwear first? Your tongues meet and intertwine as he presses his body onto yours. You want to be crushed under him. You want to be devoured by him. He rigorously pulls the neck of your shawl suddenly. So much for being a gentleman. You don’t feel like a lady either. His lips rub against your naked neck and you shiver with lust. His kisses are gentle, unlike how he almost ripped your dress apart. He seems like he’s trying to hold back, keep himself from taking the next step. Linger and focus on the soft kisses. You want him to continue. You hear his snarl against your neck. You hold his face and press his lips against yours, if he’s not going to continue, you will. And then you feel a sharp pain just as your tongue enters. 

What can only be defined as a feeling of life-and-death you strike his face with all your might, finding the strength with the adrenaline filling your blood as you try to remove yourself from the situation. Your hand frozen in air, with Mads a few steps back, after the slap, or was it a scratch? You see the marks of your long nails on his face. He touches the marks on his face just as you reach for the bleeding tongue that rests in your mouth. Both of you stare at each other in disbelief. You see your own blood in his mouth. Dripping from his lips, smeared on his long teeth, which remind you of the fangs of a beast. As his cheek heals up he touches his mouth too. Licking every bit of the blood up. He looks exposed. He looks like a game animal got cornered even though he is the one licking up your blood. He takes a step towards you. But you, ready to scream, try to find something, anything to use as a weapon groping the air on your sides. So he stops. Asks you whether you’re alright. Can he do anything for you? He’s so sorry. He apologizes profoundly. He didn’t mean to do this. You just smell so good. And… he’s… He falls silent. He looks like he’s aware that he screwed things up. But you don’t, actually can’t, reply at all. You take a step towards your room, your back glued to the wall, you have no intention of turning your back to him. He takes another step back. His face reads guilt and regret. He didn’t mean for this, you’re well aware. You don’t think he’d hurt you willingly. But you have no intention of learning what he might do unintentionally either. At least not this night. You both take steps back as you don’t break the eye contact. He apologizes once more. You see the pain on his face. But all of this is way too much for you to handle in such a short time.

You rest your back on the door long after you arrive your room. You can’t seem to move, it feels safer to just stand there, with your back on the door, maybe blocking the way for anyone that might enter. You don’t think you have the strength to stop anyone in this building from entering anywhere, but still. As the throbbing pain of your tongue reaches your consciousness, you find the energy to leave the door and change into your nightgown.


	6. Departure

When your husband arrives, you act as if you’re asleep even though you guess it’s been many hours and you have no hope of falling asleep soon. When the sun begins to rise, you are awaken with the sound of the rustling of clothes and paper. You have faint images swimming in your mind, about Mikkelsen, and about his fangs. A dream, most probably, but then the pain arrives at the tip of your tongue, the remnants of the night before. And you cover your mouth with your hand, the disgusting taste of the wound in your mouth. It throbs. When you raise your head, you see your husband preparing an overnight bag. With your movement, his attention turns to you: “Good morning. I apologize that I let you know this late, but I’ll be away for a few days.”

You rub your face and murmur. “Yes, the conference, right?” Your tongue hurts, you hope you just sounded sleepy.

He pauses for a second. “Had I told you about it?”

You freeze up, but cover it with a long yawn as if that’s why you hadn’t answered him yet. “Of course. You told me last night. Will you be going alone?” What a master liar you’ve become.

“No,” he replies. “I must’ve told you this last night too. All of the guests will be attending the conference. So I’ll be joining them for the ride.”

“Ah, of course.” You say. The pain keeps you from saying anything else. You’re not sure whether you’ll be able to eat anything even though you’re very hungry from all the awake-at-night-thinking session. He looks like he’s in a hurry, like he’s already late. Has he had breakfast? Will he be leaving right away? You don’t want to think about how Mikkelsen knew about his leave. You don’t want anything this morning. So, does this mean everybody will be leaving? Will you be alone in this grand building? With the servants of course, but still. Nothing you’re not used to. Maybe you’ll visit the library, you still have the key and you don’t think you’ve found all of the English books within all of those book cases. Yet you feel uneasy. Like you’re overlooking a major detail or something. What was Mikkelsen’s exact words? ‘Your husband will be leaving,’, and not ‘we’ll be leaving together’. You can ask him right now: will you be alone while he’s gone? Is Mikkelsen leaving too? Something in you tells you he won’t. That wouldn’t be good news. Alone with him in this place. You decide to embrace ignorance, postponing the inevitable reveal of truth, trying to keep yourself together with denial.

Master Mikkelsen stands in front of the entrance to see his guests off. Your husband says something about leaving you to his care while he’s gone and Mikkelsen assures him that you’re in safe hands. It’s like some kind of a sick joke at this point. You just slap a smile on your face and wait to be done with whatever this is.

All of the guests have already got on the carriages. They all await your husband. Standing in front of the carriages, you give a small kiss on your husband’s cheek to send him off. His eyes are on the carriage he’ll get on, though. He looks like he’s waiting for something. The door opens and Lady Alev reaches out. “We have a long way to go, doctor.” She says with her heavy accent. No more acting like she doesn’t know English it seems. Your husband flinches, seeing her. Her hand, covered with dark gloves that reach her elbows, holds the door open for your husband from the inside. She has a bright smile, showing almost all of her teeth, incredibly cheerful for such an early hour.

“Ah,” your husband exclaims. “I thought you’d already left, my lady.”

He just completely forgets about you the moment he sees her, not even returning your little kiss. He seems genuinely surprised, is it a good surprise?

“How can I leave my travel companion behind? My good doctor, don’t make us wait any longer. You can sleep in the carriage. The day has already begun. We had agreed on departing before sunrise!”  
He smiles. His smile carries an uneasiness but you don’t see it, as you’re too annoyed with Lady Alev to notice. “I sincerely apologize, my lady.” He climbs up the passenger side. “I didn’t think you’d wait, if I did…”

“No need to apologize, dear!” She laughs as your husband sits in front of her. So they’ll be traveling together, huh? Your tongue and brain hurts too much to come up with a witty remark. So you just smile and wave as you watch the two of them exchange remarks. You feel an emptiness inside you. But you continue smiling as they ride away. Just as the carriage begins moving, Alev turns to you, waving, she almost shouts: “ _Kediciğin pençeleri varmış!_ ” And she sends you a kiss with a movement of her hand. You don’t even know what language she just spoke. Was it some kind of goodbye? She probably was making fun of you in some way. You’re almost sure of that.


	7. Ointment

The two of you stand and wait until the carriages disappear between the trees. He lets out a deep breath. “Shall we go inside now?”

You don’t reply, you don’t even look at him. You don’t want to accept the reality you find yourself in. You stand there like an idiot for a few more moments and then head inside, completely ignoring him. 

He follows you after. As he enters the building he takes his hat and gloves off and lets out another breath, this time he sounds like he’s in pain. You steal a look. He rubs his eyes with two of his fingers.

You must’ve forgot that you’re stealing only a glimpse because when he raises his head, your eyes meet and you flinch with the realization that you got caught staring. 

“Can I look at your wound, please?” He asks. 

You turn your head away from him, refusing to reply.

“Look, I don’t know how bad it is.” 

You are silent.

“Just let me attend to it. Please?”

“How do I know you won’t rip my whole tongue out?” You reply, anger and poison dripping from your tone. Oh, so the witty remarks are back now. Why does he effect you like this? Why do you feel almost unhinged next to him? Free to display the aggression you never dared show anyone else ever.

“I really am a doctor.” He sounds heartbroken, your reply must’ve stabbed somewhere deep. “And I never hurt my patients when I attend to their wounds. I will not hurt you either. If anything, I’m trying to rectify my mistake.”

You don’t want to end up with a scar or anything, that’s the sole reason you let him take a look! The only reason! 

You follow him to his study. As you take a seat, he takes out his medical equipment. He takes a short look at your tongue and begins the process. Some bottles with ointments and medicine in them, some clean cloth that smells like a hospital. He uses big tweezers to hold the cloth as he dabs it in a mixture he just made. You feel extremely embarrassed as you take your tongue out for the second time, for him to apply the mixture on it. 

“You don’t require stitches, and this solution will keep the wound clean and help it heal faster.” It has a deep red color, and smells like iron, a bit. And it tastes, weirdly… good? It burns but then the burning turns into almost a sugary taste.

“What is this?” You ask. You want some more, will he apply more? Will this become a daily or hopefully an hourly thing perhaps? You wish that it is. “Will there be any scar left?”

He smiles. And waits for a while for the solution to sit in your mouth before answering. “No it won’t leave a scar.” He weighs down the options he has in regard to answering your question. “The solution has salt water and a bit of a special ingredient that’s been watered down with a special oil so it won’t be too powerful.” 

You don’t ask what the special ingredient is. You have a feeling that the taste in your mouth reminds you of blood, but not yours, something much sweeter. So you don’t ask. Your guess is scary enough. You gulp down any leftover solution and stare at him. Both of you sit in silence, his bottom resting on the table, you sitting on the seat.

“Do I taste this good to you?” You ask, your tongue moves around discreetly in your own mouth, trying to find at least a bit of a droplet left behind. Without even a hair on his body moving, he looks up, directly in your eyes. You feel as if you’re pulled towards him, even though your body remains seated, your soul is drawn to him.

“You can’t even imagine.” he whispers. 

Your tongue no longer hurts. You move it in your mouth more. With your newly found freedom to once again move it without pain, you notice him looking entertained a bit late.

“Can I look at it? Should be healed by now.” His tone is deeper as he stands up to get closer. He reaches to your face. You take out your tongue for him to examine for the last time. He places his thumb on it. You don’t retract. He presses down, a tiny bit of pressure, and his thumb moves further inside. With his movement, he feels your tongue begirding his finger softly, while your tongue forms a cove for it to rest. You hear his desire, his snarl, his yearning through his breathing. You find yourself breathing faster. His finger moves out ever so slowly, he touches your lower lip, gently rubbing along the line, in a circle and arrives at your upper lip. His movement then follows down to your lower lip again, and finally he takes his hand away. The examination is over.

You can barely breathe as he sits back at the table, licking his thumb. “The wound has healed perfectly.” He places his hand on the table, next to him, you notice him grabbing the table hard enough for his knuckle bones to become more visible. He seems like he can snap at any moment. “So,” He clears his throat. “You have questions, I have answers. Now that he’s gone.”

“How did you know that he’d be gone?”

“I arranged it.” He answers, without missing a beat. You’re stunned by his honestly. “I promised you all the answers, haven’t I?” He says.

“Why did you arrange it?”

“I had to. Because you’re here. I didn’t expect him to come with an innocent bystander. This meeting was supposed be between just him and me. No other guests. I had to invite others to deal with the new conditions. It was supposed to be me that does it, but I can simply be the bait and Alev can handle it, and I’ll owe one to her.”

“What-” You stop yourself before you ask what he was supposed to take care of about your husband. He called himself a bait. He also called your husband a huntsman. How can a creature like Mikkelsen can be the bait for a man like your husband? “Is he here to hunt you?”

“No, not yet at least. He believes that I’m like him, another hunter. He’s used to the creatures of London, I’m afraid. Sun doesn’t affect the rest of the world like it does England. I won’t burst into flames the moment I enter sun light, so he must be pretty confused. Because I’m sure he was about to figure it out.”

You replay his words in your mind and arrive at the singular question. “What are you?”

“I am a _Vampyr_ , my dear.” He answers, his tone is crestfallen. “A monster that feeds off the blood of innocents, a creature of the night, a being straight out of nightmares.” A vampire. You read stories about the creatures, almost none fits Mikkelsen but he seems serious. You might not have believed him if the occurrence of last night hadn’t took place. He seems like he awaits your screams, or you to attack him with something. You sit silently. And then you start laughing, with all cards on table, with the moments between you two, with the desire you feel towards him, and the stress of the last few days since your arrival, you laugh so loud, you hear your voice echo. He’s baffled by your laughter. “What makes you laugh like this?” He asks.

“I just…” But your laughter keeps you from continuing. Your nerves are a wreck and the result is finally out. All you can think about is how stupid you are to think you were doing something wrong by finishing your plate the day you arrived. For thinking that you were some kind of a pig to eat it all while he never even touched his food. You try to explain him, and he smiles. His smile has concern for you, you know, this probably isn’t the correct reaction to any of this, but his smile has compassion too. “I enjoy watching you eat.” He answers to your failed attempts at explaining. 

“Can you hear what I think?” you ask the moment you regain yourself, between your panting. 

“Sometimes.” He answers. “When you look deep in my eyes, I can read you, I can see your desires. I can feel your feelings. I like the rage within you. Almost reminds me of someone I knew once.” You don’t ask who, instead you ask something you actually want to know about: “So all the talk on the table?”

“It was all information about creatures like me, hunting down, situation in London, situation in here. It was all of my clan acting like they are vampire hunters and having the nights of their lives. Your husband didn’t give in, or give us any secret information. He’s a smart man, that’s why he’s the best in London, as I said. So London asked for my help.”

The remnants of laughter is erased with this new set of information. “Are you going to kill him?” Your tone is so weak, you might not have even been able to say it out loud.

His expression hardens. He looks like he’s trying to be careful with his selection of words. “I was the one that requested Alev to ask you about whether you love your husband or not. You clearly don’t. An arranged marriage, I’m guessing, you even hide the fact that you can read from him. It can’t be a happy marriage.”

“What do you know?” You snap at him. What the fuck does he think he knows? Ah, swearing like a sailor, even though it’s in your mind, you are caught off-guard. Fuck. Yes. What the fuck does he think he knows? With your mother dead at such a young age, right after you’re born. Raised by your Papa, claiming one day you’d marry him, and learning that you’ll be married off to a man you’ve heard nothing about, for… For what, exactly? Why did Papa choose that man? Did he know that he is a vampire hunter? Could he have known? Yours is not an unusual story on your family’s part, and you very well know that no lady from the parties you attend to love their husband, but they’re not faced with the implication of their murders either! Apart from Lady Adley though, the death of her husband and her sudden moving to another city sure was suspicious.

So you give in. 

“You most probably know much more than me.” You confess. “Much more than I can even imagine.” Silence falls between you two. Excuse me, you say, but I must take my leave. And you go back to your room, hoping to find some kind of conciliation in poetry.


	8. Bath

When you take a break from being cooped up in your room around noon, you walk around in the castle, secretly hoping to bump into Mister Mikkelsen along the way. You don’t. You ask the caretaker as your lunch is served. Where is he? Seems he’s resting. The exposure to sun this morning must’ve tired him so. But neither of you say anything about it. The caretaker seems to be moving around in the day it seems. He doesn’t look like he’s a vampire too, and neither do the three other servants serving in the estate. So you don’t ask him. You feel like he knows and still chooses to serve him. You have no idea about the rest of the servants though. The caretaker seems to be the one that deals with almost every social aspect about guests, he almost seems like he’s actually the caretaker of Mads, rather than the building.

You are alone while dining that night too. You ask for a bath to be readied for you. When was the last time you washed yourself? Had a nice warm soak? Not anytime soon, that’s for sure, perhaps when you were back in London, within the walls of your own estate. So why not? You’ll wash yourself, treat your bones that need some delicate warm environment, sure. There’s nothing weird with the fact that you chose the time gap you think Mikkelsen would be awake, a coincidence, truly.

Water is warmed for you and you’re taken to the grand bathroom where the only tub of the estate is placed. A servant helps you undress and you’re left with soft cloths for you to dry yourself afterwards. You want the water to be renewed unless you state otherwise, you tell them so. You light some candles and get in the warm water, the steam wrinkles the pages of your book. You read some of your favorite poems and rest your eyes afterwards. Around half an hour later you hear someone enter the room behind the engraved divider. You face the upper half of your body away from the visitor, turning your back and keeping your private parts from being seen by the servant that’ll attend to your needs.

You hear the full water of bucket be placed next to the tub. You feel the ripples of the big ladles movements, while entering to take out some of the water. When the water’s level reaches around your waist, the ladle is then used to fill in warm water back. The warmness slowly encircles you, from your feet, where the warmness disperses, to the rest of your body. As you wait for the process to be over, you reach to your book that you left some time ago, and continue reading as the water level rises. The holder of the ladle touches the side of your leg gently when they take the ladle out from the tub for the last time. You look at the hand with a side stare, what a clumsy, or rather disrespectful fellow. You turn to him to give an earful when you’re greeted with his face, cordially smiling, awaiting your stare. Is it even a surprise after you set this whole thing up? You’d be disappointed if he wasn’t the one next to you, attending to your need.

“Is it to your liking?” He asks, he sounds like he had a good rest. Where is his bedroom, does he have a bedroom, does he sleep in a coffin, you wonder.

You silently nod with your head as your hand leaves the book on the nearest surface. Slowly you turn your body to him. Still hiding behind your own arms and legs, giving glimpses but not providing the whole picture. You spent the whole day thinking. And you arrived at some conclusions, one of which was that you were in need of a decent bath instead of wiping yourself with cloths. Another one was that you wanted, almost desperately to feel his touch. He is right in front of you, with you exposed and cornered this time, after the ordeal of yesterday’s kiss. You take his hand that rests at the side of the tub, it is cold. “Does your heart beat?” You ask, as you move his hand in the water, to warm it a bit, before it touches your skin.

“Yes, but it is very slow.”

“Will you bleed if I cut you open?”

“Yes, but much less than you would.” He replies, you feel the almost insensible threat in his tone, he is jesting, sure, but you like the shiver his remark causes in your body.

You are in the warmest place there is, yet your whole body trembles as you put his now relatively warmed hand on your waist. Your arms crossed and resting on the side of the tub, you face him. You await his preference, which path he’ll choose to follow. His hand moves down. He grabs the side of your buttocks and gently moves your body so you’ll be laying on you back. He uses hiss free hand to hold your neck and provide it a comfortable rest. His hand now reaches to your inner thighs, never breaking contact as it follows over your body. You inhale sharply when he first touches your lower lips. He leaves a small soothing kiss on your forehead as his middle finger slowly enters inside, it's already so wet, he has no resistance even though you are in a body of water. You moan softly. As the finger moves inside, you feel your body curling up, he separates your legs to move freely as your upper body slowly rises out of the water as a reaction to his act. When he finds the spot, you let out a whimper. He puts another finger in and your eyes open. As your eyes lock, he presses his palm on your clit, rhythmically massaging it while his fingers continue their movement inside. You can no longer contain your moans, your eyes slide a bit but you focus on his eyes again. You reach for his face and pull him closer. As he goes on, so does the sound of your moans raise. He presses his lips on to yours to silence you, but you almost scream at this point, so close to a feeling that possesses your whole body, as your muscles spasm with pleasure. Your insides hold onto his fingers, like they’ll never let go. And with moans and screams you reach climax, as you hold onto his face and neck with both of your hands. First orgasm of your life. Incredible.

Your whole body shakes with the sensation and you’re gasping for air after this experience. You had never felt anything like this, ever. You feel like a virgin after seeing what he can manage with only one hand. You wish you had more experience on such topics, some kind of education on how to do things like this. Well, he can teach you, can’t he?

As you open your eyes, your head resting on his hand, you notice his fangs that are visible between the small space between his lips. He seems thrilled after watching your reaction. “Have you perhaps never had a hand lay upon you, swan?” He asks.

You order him to be silent, upon his way of making fun of your inexperience. So he simply smiles. Both of you watch each other for a few moments. You examine his face up close, so does he. You never had the chance to do it this thorough. So you linger on each part of his face, taking your time to fully see it. The hand you left on his face moves towards his lips. You touch his lower lip as he did to you. You slide your thumb gently in his mouth, over his grinder teeth. The sensation tingles you. You further separate his lips, to see better how his fangs look. He awaits you patiently. With your free hand, you reach to his closest fang and lightly touch it. It’s very sharp, you can sense it. Then you press your finger on it. Even the sides are extremely sharp, it takes less than a second to rip your skin and make the blood gush out. You softly whimper and take your thumb out, so he can suck the flowing blood on your other hand easily. His lips close over your finger. His tongue moves around the cut. You feel the gentle movements in his mouth. Neither of you break the eye contact until he opens his mouth for you to take your hand back. 

“Which one tastes better?” You ask.

“The one that’s given willingly.” He fixes the hairs that fell on your face. “But if you’re asking about my favorite part on the body…” He gently rubs the back of his hand on the side of your neck. “A classical choice, but for someone my age…” He doesn’t finish.

“When were you born?” You ask.

He smiles. In that moment, he looks old to your maiden eyes. Ripe, like finely aged wine. The cumulative outcome of all of his experiences through God knows how many decades, or maybe even centuries. “Would the answer: ‘a very long time ago’ satisfy you?” He says.

“No.” But then you feel the need to explain the reasoning of such a question. “I was the one that wanted to come to this journey.” You reach to his hair, moving some of it back. “I heard that he’d be coming to this land. The only thing I knew about here was the Vikings. A short paragraph from a world history book. I just wondered whether you were around when they were still ruling over here.”  
“Do you fancy the Vikings?” He asks back, clearly entertained by the topic you just opened.

“Would depend on whether you were one.” You answer back, which makes him grin more. The creases on the side of his eyes deepen. He just stands up and asks another question instead of answering. “Do you want more warm water or will you be getting out?” Then you notice his outfit. A basic cotton shirt, the neck untied, with half of his chest exposed, the sleeves folded till his elbows. A pair of dark colored, tailor cut pants. He looks like he’s ready to go out to join a street brawl or something. “Shouldn’t you be dressed up a bit more handsome than that when you’re before a lady?”

“I am but a servant at this moment.” He fixes his collar. “But I shall dress up fancy for the lady.” He rests his hands on his waist. “So? What shall it be?”

You want to stay in the bath longer, and you want another round of water in a short while too. You enjoy the way he serves you, makes you feel less puny in many ways. You guess that is exactly what he’s trying to do: lessen your fear of him, provide an equal ground for you two to level yourselves. Who are you to stop him?


	9. Nectar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >>>>>:3c
> 
> recommended song: Movement - Hozier

The next morning you awake in your own bed, with hazy memories about how you arrived in your room. You remember Mads appearing with a gentleman suit the next time he visited, and also brought ripe green grapes. The small fruits exploded in your mouth, leaving a sugary taste behind. So that’s what his blood tasted like, ride grapes, was bringing them a conscious choice to help you connect the tastes? With the sweet aftertaste, you get out of the bed and rinse it off with some fresh water. You decide to wear a dress that you last wore in a tea party last month, feels like it was last year now. Maybe even last decade. You dress up, knowing well that the whole estate is yours to enjoy the whole day. Without the fear of getting caught, you read a book you chose from Mads’ library and read it as the morning tea is served. You ask for some grapes along the fried eggs.

You spend the day touring the estate. From head to toe, from its neglected yet still beautiful marble furniture filled back garden, to the stable where the fearsome big horses are kept and taken care of. You feed some carrot to the grand beasts, the stableman helps you through it and shows you how you should hold your hand so they won’t bite you. You walk through the corridors, this time closely examining all the paintings along the walls. You see the painting of a family: mother, father and three kids; none of which looks like Mads, perhaps the appearance of the Royal family? You find the portrait of Mads on the third floor. Right in front of a door that you won’t dare open. You get close to see well. The details are on point, and the way he stares on the canvas really shows how the artist was indeed talented in capturing his likeness. You don’t look for a date though, even though you realize it would give you a clearer clue on his age.

Around noon it starts to rain, which reminds you of your own estate in London, and your half-sister, who is taking care of it for you, and your Papa who must be dealing with his business right about now. The face of your husband appears in your mind. You use the brush of your imagination to erase his face. It almost works. You can’t even make guesses on what he might be doing at this moment. You don’t want to. Upon searching your heart and mind, expecting to find some kind of regret or concern over everything you did and learned about; you don’t. It’s simply not there. Out of sight, out of mind, it seems. It’s not like you can stop Mads’ coven from hurting him, isn’t he supposed to be the hunter? One against many. Almost no way he can survive something like this. You just feel it in your bones. What about you then? Will they simply bring his body here? Or just bury him, hopefully, somewhere there, instead of leaving his body out in the open for dogs and crows to feast upon… You stop yourself before the image gets any more vivid. Your stomach feels bad and you don’t wish to spill its contents right on this lovely carpet. With your hand over your mouth, you wish to go out for a walk but the rain doesn’t seem like it’ll stop anytime soon. Instead you go to the library to find a safe harbor from the storms of your mind.

Dinner is hare meat marinated in wine and some other fancy stuff, weird looking fruit and bisket. You dine alone, as expected. Sadly he doesn’t seem to join you, you wait longer than you would but around the time to go to bed you decide enough is enough. Did he perhaps regret his movements? Or maybe he simply is trying to give you some space, the knowledge of your husband’s possible murder is not a great mood setter. What will happen after today though? Or tomorrow? What will happen when you, in the end after you learn that, your husband is indeed dead? Will you stay here until the end of your expected visit? No one from London will know that he’s dead, except for you. Can you copy his handwriting, if he were to receive any letters? Will you hold a funereal, if you would even be able to, that is? Will you just declare yourself dead too and stay here forever maybe? A tragic accident, married English couple found dead in a ditch, the result of a mugging attempt, would this be believable? Wouldn’t Papa pile his men to this estate, where both of you were seen alive? With that you realize a possibility right under your nose. What if you are killed too? Why not? When he’s done with you, why not simply discard your remains too? And just make up a story about how the couple got lost in the woods or something. But then again, if he would, he already would have, right? No need for all these games, no need to await your consent, no need for any delicacies or any humiliation of himself. So, no, you’re not going to get killed, not tonight, and hopefully not ever. While buried deep in your own mind, your feet carry you to the library. You notice the fluttering weak light coming from inside. It feels like an invitation.

You find him going over some handwritten papers, he faces to the door and silently reads them as you enter. There’s no way he didn’t realize that you are there but you feel as if he’s waiting for you to make a move. He definitely doesn’t seem uninterested, but perhaps a bit too focused on whatever he’s reading. You decide to be sure that he isn’t ignoring you. “I had read vampires could see in the dark, is that a telltale also?”

He smiles before lifting his head up. “No, the light is for you.”

“Someone was sure that I’d show up.” You add while approaching the table.

“And you did.” His smile deepens as he looks at you. His aura is friendly, rather than seductive.

“Unlike someone who didn’t accompany me during the dinner.” You reply, resting your bottom on the side of the table, your back turned to him, your eyes looking over the papers to see if there’s anything you can make out.

“Ah, I didn’t wish to create an overbearing mood for you. I decided to let you breathe, and also do not wish to come off too strong.” He turns the papers to your vision, but they’re all in a language you don’t recognize. “I can translate them if you want.” He offers.

“I’m sure I’d be content with a short summary.” You can’t surpass your smiling.

“These are all business reports and this one article about medicine that awaits my approval to be published as the official treatment.” He shows you the article, it’s quite long. “My old student seems like he may even surpass me if he had the elixir of immortality.”

You eyebrows raise. You didn’t imagine him having students or paying attention to humans after you learned the most important fact about him. But now, he fits right back at your first impression of him: a kind, generous and talented man of medicine. You almost can’t wrap your head around the fact that this man is indeed a vampire. You don’t feel even the tiniest bit of fear near him.

You search for a seat, so you can accompany him while he does his work. Your eyes meet for a second. “Would you like to sit here?” He asks. You reply right back. “Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”  
“I finished working some time ago. I was just lingering to await your arrival.”

“You should have told me so, I wouldn’t have waited for you on the dinner table.”

He laughs, “Yes, my bad.” And gets up. “Really, my lady. I insist. I’ll bring the seat from the window side.” You sit down in his stead. While your bottom expects warmness, you face the reality that his body doesn’t generate much heat. He places the chair on the other side of the table, you get the feeling that he’s using the table as a physical border between the two of you. He has no problem with you being on his side, he just avoids being on the same side at the same time. Or maybe again, he doesn’t wish to be the one that makes the move. You can take the initiative, haven’t you done so yesterday too? As he was on the path to engage in pleasant chatter about how he heard you visiting the horses, you take the papers in your hand. “They are frightening creatures.” You reply. “I changed my mind.” You declare. “I’d like to learn some of your language’s words. Would you be interested in teaching me?"

“Of course.” He says, taken a bit aback by your abrupt request. You fear he might view you as rude but the ship has sailed, too late. You want outcomes this night and it’s already a very late hour, you can’t stay up all night. “Yet, that article may be a bit heavy for a beginner.” He gets up to get you another material. “I think I have something lighter for you.” He returns with a book. “Would you be interested in fairy tales?” You very much would, even though you fear he thinks of you as a child. “It’s simply that fairy tales have the words that are easiest to learn, at least in my opinion. That’s how I started learning your tongue.” That is very cute, the way he offers you knowledge that can be considered embarrassing in order to lighten your anxieties. Yet when he says “tongue” your mind drifts directly to his lips, and kissing him and being held by him, and-

You loudly clear your throat. “Yes, of course.” You await him to leave the book in front of you and then you go over a few pages. As there are no illustrations or pictures you have no idea what these stories may be about. Your brows are crossed and you desperately search for words that look a bit familiar at least. You put the book in between you after defeat and wait for him to start. He watches you curiously. When it’s his turn to show you a word and explain what it means, you act as if the light is not enough and pull the book to yourself and put your finger on the wrong word on purpose. When you put in on the table again, with a kind patience he shows you the correct one again. After the third time you see the amused expression on his face. “It’s hard with this table between us.” You say. “The light is too weak for proper education. Perhaps we should sit side by side.”

“Oh, so that would solve everything you say?” He replies, the smile he’s trying to surpass still on his lips. You stand up as if you’re letting him the space so he can move the seats. He stands up and approaches your side. “You are a very direct woman, swan.” He whispers. You feel an electrifying rush down your spine. “For you, I am.” You answer as he stands opposing you, with no intention of moving any more seats. He slowly reaches to you, his fingers leave burning marks on your arms. With one arm, he holds your waist and draws you near, now your bodies touch. The other hand reaches to your hair, gently holding the back of your head while he leans in for the kiss. Your breath, that became shaky the moment he stood up, is uncontrollable at this point. You kiss each other deeply and with the burning passion he tried very hard to conceal. Your hands find their way to the buttons of his jacket and without seeing or thinking, you start unbuttoning it. You rip the shawl wrapped to his neck and he takes a short break to laugh at your reference to his behavior during your first kiss. As your hands reach under his shirt and feel his bare chest the first time, you moan softly. He gently lets you go to undress you this time. With each time he pulls the ribbon, he places a little kiss on your lips. You wish you had worn your nightgown but you have no objection to the kisses. He is very careful not to rip your dress apart but still each time he pulls, your body almost swings to that side. He gets more and more impatient until he finally accidently rips the ribbon.

You see the uh-oh face he makes for a second yet you laugh and take the outer dress off. You are left with your corset and undergarments, while he is left with his pants. Another deep kiss follows before each of you continue removing the clothing from the other. You feel him when you reach to his pants. You are not sure if you can handle something like that with the frame you have. He rips your corset too, and places a long kiss on your neck. Before you can untie his pants, he places his hands on your hips, then legs and suddenly lifts you. You scream in excitement and laugh loudly as he places you on the table. His hands sweeps everything on the table to the ground as you kiss him. The candle holder lands with a loud thunk and the light goes out. You’re left with the light of the moon.

After placing your feet on the edge of the table he kneels before you. Not sure what he’s planning next, you lift your upper body on the table to see him lifting the skirt of your undergarment. When his lips meets yours down, you let out a second scream of surprise. His hands grab your sides and waist and his tongue is deep in you as you fall back on the table with soft moans. With each time you make a noise, you feel him getting more aggressive, less able to hold back. You hold his hair and moan more. As you meet the highest form of pleasure the second time, barely breathing and knees shaking, he stands back up to tower above you. “Your taste is incredible.” He whispers as his body leans over yours. “Which part?” You ask, barely able to talk. “Everything.” he answers as he leans in to kiss. He presses his down part over yours and you’re pretty sure you don’t feel any clothing over the area. You moan loudly as he takes a break from the kissing. “Tell me.” He whispers. “Command me.”

You can barely whisper “Inside-“ and no other word can leave your lips at that point. His smile has a scary aura to it. You shiver as he presses himself on you. He wants a command? You’ll give him a command. “Feed me.” You moan, one hand holding his face, the other clinging to his wrist. He smiles. You dig your nails into his wrist as an answer. He smiles wider. With all of his weight on his arm that you hold onto, he sinks his teeth deep into his free wrist and places it on your lips. Your face relaxes as you drink the sweet nectar. Both of your hands holds the offering and you gulp down the taste of ripe grapes and something much more, you drink pure ecstasy, right from its source. You let him go, the wound patches up the moment you do. He places both of his hands on the table back again. You lick the blood smeared on your lips and hold his hips. “Get inside me.” You command as you move your body to accept him in. Without breaking the eye contact for the first few seconds, his manhood enters.

You feel a new form of excitement and lust towards him, now that his surprisingly warm blood is in you too. You scream with pleasure. He begins to move. First, slowly, like he’s trying to savor you. But with your moans and the way you hold onto his arms back again, his movements quickly become faster. You two kiss again. You can feel his existence. You can feel his desires. You can feel his pleasure. This is all too much for your fragile body almost, if you had the ability to think at that moment, you’d realize the reason he let you drink his blood was for you to heal from any damage he could cause during your love making. You can’t, while you are slammed on the table and the feeling of his manhood is driving you insane, though. You moan his name, in return he whispers yours. His hand grabs your neck, his fangs gleaming with the soft moon light. You can hear him, even though his parted lips do not move. He wants your sweet nectar too, he wants to sink his fangs deep inside you. You are so close to climax, what better way is there to let him bite you back while doing so? Even the thought makes you dizzy. You hold his face and place his mouth over your neck. The blood gushes in his mouth and he loudly moans as you moan back in return. You orgasm as his fangs sink deeper and after pleasure fills your body you feel him filling your insides after a hard thrust. You hold his hair, pushing him into your neck as you scream in pleasure.

And that’s the moment the glass door of the library shatters.


	10. Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> recommended song: Nina Cried Power - Hozier

Unbeknownst to you, your husband spent the last two days in ways he would rather not. The first day at the town was almost fun. The carriages arrived to the town around noon. He had a late lunch with Lady Alev, during which she didn’t eat anything because “she didn’t feel very well after all those hours in the carriage”. To his surprise, Lady Alev was a woman of knowledge and she had no shame whatsoever in talking back to people who dare disrespect her and talk her mind. She was an educated and reserved woman, well-reversed in literature and philosophy. Any curveball he sent, she caught and threw back in almost any field he considered himself a master at. She told stories about the Sultans of a faraway empire, and was also aware of the political climate of the world. She talked like a man, drank and smoked like one too, yet always sat and stared back like a refined lady. He was dumbstruck and intimidated by her existence.

After lunch the two of them visited the theater, she wanted to see if there were any good shows, but unluckily the next show would be performed two months later. “Ah well, it was worth the try.” She said, not hiding her disappointment. The congress was to be held tomorrow, so they had to find a decent inn. All the other friends of Lady Alev and Master Mads had left to take care of business, or so they told. Reaching the inn was no feat, they both rented separate rooms. When he was sure that she was in her room, he got out of his, to send the urgent letter to his fellow hunters in England. “Something is up.” Wrote the letter. “Be here as quick as you can.” This was more than enough for them to act on, even though he and, God bless her, his wife were to be murdered by this Lady Alev, playing the friend of the good doctor, others would know that they’d have to look into it. He adorned himself with his equipment: silver bullets, two stakes, some holy water, a small black magick book and silver chain vest he wore under his shirt.

Just as he was about to leave the building, there she stood, Lady Alev, with an intimidating smile on her face. “My good doctor,” she said cheerfully, with her heavy accent. “Where are you off to?”

He didn’t make any remarks on how she was surely in her room just a second ago. “I have some errands.” He replied back, adorned with his most convincing fake sincere smile. She quickly and casually linked arms with him. “Ah, then let me join you. I sure haven’t shaken the wobbly feeling of being inside the carriage yet.”

Just as he tried to find a reason why she shouldn’t, he had another idea. “Ah, then perhaps you can help me find a good place to eat. I plan on taking my wife with me next time I come around.”

“How sweet of you!” She giggled. “Yes, I can show you the best places around.” They left the inn together, arms linked, chatting like a couple of lovers. They walked some, and walked some more. The sun started setting when he asked: “Are we far still? We walked quite a lot.” To which she replied that she may have been lost herself and she’s sorry too, but she’s sure she will get back on track the moment she finds the statue of the local hero and find the rest of the way through there. It wasn’t long before they indeed found the statue. Took them a few more minutes when she finally declared that they had arrived. It was not a place they could find food, however, it was a long closed postal office, as it was already after the sun had set. And after all the circles around the town and Alev’s loud chatter, he wasn’t sure what part of town they were in. “This is-” he began to say.

“A post office.” She completed his sentence. She reached to his chest area where the urgent letter is kept in the inner pocket of his jacket and pressed her hand right on it. “Don’t you have a letter to send, my dear doctor?” She asked. Her tone sent a shiver down his spine. He quickly took his arm back from the woman. “Should’ve figured it was a ruse to await the night.” He whispered with anger. He did though, that was why he had his equipment with him, in case of anything.

“That silver vest won’t do any favors to your wellbeing, my dear.” She smiled. Her smile had venom, her smile wrapped fear around his neck. He gulped down and talked, successfully controlling the shaking of his voice. “Finally time to end this charade.”

They were almost at the outskirts of the town. Running in the town would mean putting civilians in danger, he had to bring the fight to the forest. Not like he hadn’t fought surrounded by trees before. He made a quick calculation to make an estimate to figure out how long it’d take him to get to the stables.

“Even in the face of immediate danger, you think of your wife. How thoughtful.” She whispered as she took a step towards him. He quickly pulled his pistol from the back of his pants and faced it towards the woman. But she had disappeared. He then grabbed one of his stakes and began running towards the estimated location of stables.

It was not an easy fight, for him at least, when he learned that the number of vampires was well over one. He managed to hurt some, and learned that, no, holy water does not work on Alev, silver bullets only slowed them down, and after pulling a lone traveler off his horse and leaving him behind to be eaten and stealing his horse to arrive at the estate of Mads, he also leraned that vampires of other parts of the world could run faster than a healthy horse on full speed. After the horse died, fighting ensued, he found a cave to hide for the night and realized that Alev was no longer on chase after him, he started walking the whole way back. He found some landmarks, talked to the local people, none of which knew a drop of English but pointed the way upon hearing the name of the estate. He limped all the way back, with a wound, clearly infected and throbbing like hell, as rain poured down and soaked him to his bones, he cursed his luck for not finding anything to make a fire out of, the prior night and not sealing his wound. But he had no way of doing so at this point. He drank the rain water and covered in mud, arrived at the estate around after dinner hour. Starving, tired and feeling the pain of his leg climbing up in his body.

Master Mikkelsen would help with the wound. He’d seal it and feed him. They’d talk about what to do next. How to protect themselves. It could prove a bit of a difficulty explaining the true nature of Alev but he had his ways. He pushed through the last few kilometers and arrived at the door. The caretaker opened the door for him and with a surprised expression, offered him some water and cold soup, the best he could prepare at such short notice. The table was still set at such a late hour, which means someone, either his wife or Mikkelsen was still awake probably. He had no energy left so he accepted the change of clothes and wiped his face with the wet towel. He was not done catching his breath when he heard the screams, your screams. He had a million thoughts rushing through his mind. But he didn’t lose a second before running to the source of the sound. You know what he saw, who broke the glass door to save you, and who connected the dots about Mikkelsen right that moment.

You hear his roar “Let her go, you ungodly abomination!” you see him pull a pistol, you hear the loud bang of his special gun, you see your blood gush to the emptiness. You blink and he’s inside. You blink once again and Mads holds him by the neck, bashing him to the nearest bookshelf. A loud crack echoes in your ears. You quickly snap out of your fright and leap on your feet screaming for them to stop. Mads looks like he was one second away from snapping his neck, but he stops, growling low under his breath, holding him, his feet barely touching the ground. Your husband’s pistol is right in the face of Mads, he can just pull the trigger right now and you have no idea if Mads would survive such a thing. But with your scream both of them hesitate for a moment and turn to you. Mads awaiting your next command, your husband with the realization of you two having intercourse just a moment ago, the realization that he had your consent in doing so. His voice shakes as he says your name, his grip weakened on the gun. But you look at Mads, afraid that he indeed will kill him right then and there. His blood is still in you, you can’t see straight, the colors pop and everything seems so funny to you suddenly. “How, how could you?” Your husband asks in disbelief. He looks like he went through hell, his eyes sunk in his sockets, mud and blood still here and there on his body, he looks hungry and tired, he looks like he ran all the way back to get you. And you find it hilarious. You start laughing to his face. “How could I?” you ask back. “What kind of a husband doesn’t even realize his wife can read and write after spending five fucking years married?”

“I-“ He stammers. “Of course I knew you could read.”

“That’s a lie.” Mads growls back. He seems patient only towards you.

You weakly laugh. “I can’t believe I trust Master Mikkelsen more than I trust you.” You whisper. The way he looks is so pitiful you can’t help but laugh. THIS is the man that raped you at your wedding night? THIS is the man you feared because he didn’t keep himself from striking you when you did the tiniest mistake? The man who didn’t pay attention to you at all? The man who magically became a caring person once exposed to a fucking vampire lady? Was that all? He needed to be exposed to a woman that would actually scare him into acting decent. It’s very funny to you. But you stopped laughing a while ago. “Are you going to kill him?” You ask Mads, as he quickly rips the pistol from his hand and throws it to the other side of the room. Your blood still paints his lips and neck red.

“Am I?” he asks back. It takes a whole minute for you to answer. During which your husband tries to say something but Mads chokes him so he just gasps.

“Yes you are.”

No time for anything else before you hear a loud crack and your husband’s body drops to the floor. You feel weak at your knees. You get support from the table and turn your head away as you feel your stomach rising up. Something keeps you grounded though. Mads arrives next to you and lifts you up in a swift move. He carries you to the tub. Orders warm water to be brought immediately and helps you undress and get into the tub. The warm water feels good. He affectionately wipes the blood off you and puts the warm towel on your eyes. You hear him say that he’ll be right back but you’re not in a position to reply. You just stay in the tub, unable to process the night. You faintly hear him growling in an angry voice, right outside the door. “I thought I told you to take care of it.” You hear him say. The voice of Lady Alev replies back. “And I remember you were assigned with it, you already owe me many things.”

He snaps back at her. “Was the trauma on her necessary?”

“I wasn’t the one that asked her opinion on whether to kill him and did it right in front of her.”

His growl gets louder. Upon which Alev adds. “Relax, it’s not like I wanted to let him go. He almost killed one of us, and wounded many others. Besides, I was catching the letter he left to the innkeeper. You don’t want the whole London up our ass, do you?”

He deeply breathes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You hear him coming back. “Swan,” he whispers. He sits next to you. You turn to him. Guilt and shock consuming you. “I have an important question.” He continues. You try to focus your stare on him, he seems so far away for some reason. “Do you want to forget about tonight?” He looks deep inside you, so deep that he doesn’t feel like he’s a separate entity from you now. “Do you want to forget about him?” He holds your hands and lands a small kiss on one of them before going back to looking deep in your soul. “Do you want to stay here, with me? I can make it happen.”

You feel your head, now incredibly heavy, nod to his question. You want to forget it. You can’t live with the knowledge of the past few days. You can’t live with the knowledge that you ordered that man to be killed, murdered, you wanted it to happen, you knew that ordering would result in that, but now, it feels too heavy, you feel too heavy.

“Do you want to stay with me?” He asks once again, to be sure. You nod again. You do. You don’t understand how, but you do.

Sleep falls on you like a heavy blanket.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As the unmarried partner of a Danish gentleman and esteemed medicine practitioner, you live quite the luxurious life in the year 1768. You never got married and your father definitely doesn’t approve of your “friendship” with this doctor, but maybe he shouldn’t have sent you to study to Denmark in the first place. You send letters to him every moth. And every two weeks to your half-sister, who can’t wait to learn all the things you are going through in that foreign land. They sometimes talk about what a shame the death of a man was, whose name doesn’t remind you of anything else, but the nightmares you sometimes have for some reason. The loud crack makes you shiver, that’s the main sound you hear in those nightmares, but as months pass by, you see less and less of that nightmare and at some point, both your Papa and your sister stop talking about the lad. You’re relieved because you didn’t know what to write back to them and even after Mads told you that they’re talking about his friend who passed away last year from falling down a tree during a hunt, you wrote something back about the heavy toll of losing a loved one and how hard it’s on Mads and you, but the you part wasn’t true.

You work on the garden, you were able to read your first full sentence in Danish last week and things are good. A tutor, named Alev, comes over a few times a month to teach you about matters, Mads and you visit the nearby town once a moth to send your letters and see if there is anything interesting. His friends come over once in a while. Turning you into one of them is a topic that’s discussed at least once every dinner with his coven. You remind them that you wish to spend some more time as a human. But who knows? Maybe in a few years, you too will become a vampire.


	11. Update

Hey! This story has a second part! You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29679816


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